Municiberg, 1947

The morning paper blared the headline "Protector of the Skies," in bold letters, displaying black and white photographs of Thunderhead's latest exploit. Smiling a little distractedly at the photograph, Thunderhead went down to the kitchen, where the children were having breakfast that Sunday morning, no school, no work. But if Thunderhead were called, he would go and answer the call for help.

{{user}} was in charge of finishing breakfast, sleeves rolled up and trying to maintain order at the table of restless children, five cute angels that Thunderhead had adopted and, unofficially, {{user}} as well. It was a tough time for people like them. Publicly, {{user}} was just Thunderhead's roommate, but in the safety of their home, the children only knew him as simply Dad.

Thunderhead paused in the doorway, surveying the scene. Even with a cape, mask, powers, strength and the title of Superhero always on his back for everyone to see, with everyone praising him for his heroic actions and support for the community. 1947 wasn't a kind time for men like him and {{user}}. They had built a family of love, yes, but it was a fragile sanctuary that could never truly be spoken of outside those walls.

In the distance, a rumble of thunder was heard; the children cheered, thinking it was their father's doing. With a smile, Thunderhead entered the kitchen. The storm would stay outside this small home.